


Leather And Wool

by WinterTheWriter



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Uni!lock, University AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:38:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4683926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterTheWriter/pseuds/WinterTheWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's very hard to enjoy the simple things in life, such as the most convenient parking space on campus, when someone else parks in them. Uni!Lock AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mystrade_Dispatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystrade_Dispatch/gifts).



> Commissioned work. Please message me for details if you'd like your own!

Greg harrumphs to himself as he drives to campus, hunched over his steering wheel and squinting at the road through sleep-deprived eyes. This, he thinks, is going to be a shitty day. He can feel it in his bones, weighing him down and making him wish for it all just to be over so he can /go back to bed/. His alarm didn’t go off on time, his coffee machine broke, and his car is showing that scary light on his dash that he can’t be arsed to look up. And now, he has to drag himself to an 8AM class he’s only even taking to get his Humanities credits out of the way, with only the small things in his daily life to look forward to.

Like the most convenient parking space on campus.

The one he uses every day.

The one currently /fucking taken/ by someone /other than him./

Greg glares daggers at the car as if that alone will make it move, gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckles. He knows that car. That ridiculously expensive, /pompous/ 2015 Black Cadillac belongs to the equally ridiculously expensive, pompous Mycroft Bloody Holmes. The car opens, and the man himself climbs out, brushing invisible dust off his bespoke suit like people gave a shit about what one wore to classes this early.

There are other spots around, probably, and he /is/ already late. Besides, Greg likes to think of himself as moderately nice guy, and yelling at someone for a parking space isn’t typically considered nice. And so, briefly, he considers taking the high road and driving on.

Briefly.

Greg lowers the window and pops his head out. “Oi! That’s my bloody spot!” Mycroft stiffens for a moment before facing him, raising an eyebrow before glancing at his car.

“I can’t say I see your name on it, Gregory,” he replies, sounding so posh and smooth it makes Greg want to lock him in Buckingham Palace where he belongs. And /Gregory./ Why does Mycroft call him /Gregory?/ He and Mycroft are 18 and 20 respectively – far too young to say /Gregory./ They’ve never even bloody spoken before; he shouldn’t even know his /name/. Hell, he only knows Mycroft’s because /everyone/ knows Mycroft, the creepy genius with the equally creepy genius brother.

“Don’t need my name on it, mate. I’ve been parking here since the semester started and I don’t plan on changing that.” As if to emphasize his point, Greg puts his car into park and crosses his arms. Mycroft sighs, eyes rolling up in dramatic exasperation for a moment.

“The semester started three weeks ago. Three weeks is hardly enough time for one to be able to ‘claim’ a parking spot. You were too slow today and now you must start on the /arduous/ task of finding another place to put that,” Mycroft pauses, a grimace curling his lips, “death trap of yours.”

“It’s a fucking Mazda.”

“Case in point.”

Greg growls, actually growls, and he feels a brief and fierce sense of satisfaction when Mycroft’s eyes widen slightly at the sound. Without another word, he throws his car into drive and speeds off through the lot.  
It takes him only ten seconds to find another place. Greg does not care. 

~

Any vain hope Greg harbored that this was a one-time thing leaves the moment he sees that fucking car in his space /again/ the same day later. He’d even gotten up earlier for it – his class is at noon, two hours from now – and /still/ Mycroft managed to park there first. He doesn’t bother stopping this time, instead opting for the /completely bloody mature/ path of slowing his car to a roll and glaring at Mycroft’s   
smirking face as he passes.

It’s like the bloke was /waiting/ for him. 

“Better luck tomorrow, Gregory!” Mycroft calls after him. 

He, however, does /not/ have better luck tomorrow. Or the next day. Or even the day after that. What at first seemed like simply a clash of schedule now seems almost insidious in nature. It puts Greg in a rough mood as he storms towards his Friday class, ten minutes late because parking took so /fucking long/. His professor gives him an angry look when Greg opens the door, but he pays her no mind as he plops down into his seat. She tuts at him, marking something down on the podium before continuing on with the lesson. 

The following two and a half hours are full of half-hearted notes and impatient glances at the clock, his free hand clenched into a fist on the desk. A pretty girl next to him – Molly, he remembers – shyly asks if he’s alright. Greg forces a smile and nods, but he knows how annoyed he must look, and the tedium of the class isn’t helping. Still, she smiles back politely and turns her attention to her notes instead of interrogating further, and Greg’s smile is far more genuine this time as he does the same. Nice girl, she is. Shame she doesn’t have the right gender for him.

When his professor /does/ finally let them out, shouting something about the mid-term exam Greg already can’t remember, he practically bolts from the room, making a beeline to the parking lot. If his timing is right…./Perfect./

Mycroft is just about to get into his car, looking far more like a professor than a student and it twists something in Greg’s gut. The bastard looks so ruddy pleased with himself that Greg doesn’t know whether he wants to punch him or his car. “Hey!” Greg calls, now jogging to catch up. Mycroft starts a bit and Greg can’t help but smirk. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft intones. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“You know damn well what!” Greg says, crossing his arms with a glare. Mycroft seems almost confused, just for a moment, but Greg’s seen enough of this bloke to know it isn’t genuine. Mycroft Holmes is never confused.

“Oh, is this about your strange obsession with this parking space?” 

“/Yes./ And you can’t call it strange when you’ve been stealing it this whole fucking week.” Mycroft quirks his eyebrows at the cuss and Greg is briefly reminded of his teachers from sixth form trying to silently guilt him. 

“Perhaps. Nevertheless, I like parking here. I will continue to park here when the space is free, as is my right as a fellow student of this University,” Mycroft replies, a hint of petulance in his tone. Mostly, however, Greg hears condescension.

“Bullshit,” he growls, jabbing a finger at Mycroft’s chest. “You only like parking here because you know it pisses me off. What have I ever done to you, eh?” 

It could’ve been just the way the sun’s hitting Mycroft’s cheeks, but for a moment he could’ve sworn the man was /blushing./ But the moment passes, and Mycroft looks up and away for a moment like the sight of Greg’s not-filthy-fucking-rich presence is making him uncomfortable. “That’s a very self-centered way of viewing the situation, don’t you think? As one who dreams of being an officer, perhaps you should work on that.”

“You patroni--…/how/ do you know I want to be an officer?” His tone is probably more incredulous than Greg would’ve liked, but he’s only just come to that conclusion himself. Mycroft sighs the sigh of the very put-upon.

“I dislike explaining myself to those who have no chance of comprehending my words, Gregory.”

“Oi! Don’t talk to me like I’m some bumbling idiot just because I don’t have your ridiculous IQ. People don’t need to be geniuses to deserve respect!” 

Mycroft looks shocked, actually shocked, that someone would dare speak to him like this. Greg quirks his own brows, silently mocking the other’s stance. He desperately hopes he doesn’t look as ridiculous as he feels. Silence stretches between them just long enough for Greg to start to feel uncomfortable, and he’s about to say something else when Mycroft finally replies. “I…apologize,” he starts, voice low and almost /embarrassed/. It’s enough of a surprise that Greg instantly relaxes his stance, eyes widening. “Perhaps this entire situation is a bit…silly.” The word sounds foreign and uncomfortable coming from that posh mouth and Mycroft grimaces at it like it left a foul taste behind. 

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Greg looks around and actually thinks about it, thinks about how riled up he’s gotten, how immaturely he’s acted, and he feels like a child. He laughs suddenly, and Mycroft looks concerned like Greg’s about to have a fit of some sort, but Greg only shakes his head as his shoulders tremble with laughter. After a moment, Mycroft hesitantly joins in, the sound deep and somehow /still/ pompous and it makes Greg laugh even harder. “Christ,” he gasps, wiping under his eyes. “We’re fucking ridiculous. This is fucking ridiculous. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re forgiven,” Mycroft replies, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes that shows nothing but mirth. Greg gives him an easy grin, running his fingers through his hair.

“Wanker.”

“Your insults /could/ use some work, though.”

“Super wanker.”

“Better.”

Greg snorts and Mycroft smiles slightly. They stare at each other for a few long moments, not saying anything. He really /looks/ at him for the first time, and Greg must admit, Mycroft isn’t…unattractive. With his regal cheekbones and soft-looking hair and those /freckles/ across the bridge of his nose, Gregory Lestrade realizes that Mycroft Holmes is, well, /gorgeous./ The thought shocks him right out of their little staring contest and makes him look away, hoping he’s not blushing. 

“Well,” Mycroft says, nodding to his car. “I best be off. Little brothers to tend to and all that.” Greg remembers exactly where they are and he steps out of Mycroft’s way.

“Right, yes, of course. Still, can’t be all that hard, yeah?” Greg asks with a tentative grin. Mycroft scoffs in reply, shaking his head.

“Do you /know/ my brother?”

“I’ll keep you in my prayers.”

Mycroft laughs and nods in thanks as he slides into his car. “Oh, and Gregory?” he asks, sticking his head out of the window.

Greg was about to walk away, but now he turns back to him. “Yeah?”

There’s an evil sort of smirk on Mycroft’s lips, but his eyes show only hesitant kindness. “I /did/ park here on purpose.” And then the window’s rolled up, the proverbial mic dropped, and Greg can only stare incredulously as the car pulls out and speeds off. 

He laughs to himself, mutters, “Wanker,” under his breath, and walks away.

The next morning, his parking spot is free.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commissioned work. Please message me if you'd like your own!

“Lestrade has a crush!” Anderson whoops, nudging Greg and waggling his eyebrows. Greg groans and pulls on his shirt, sitting on the bench to tie his shoes. The rest of his rugby team laughs, and Mike plops down next to him, slinging a sweaty arm over his shoulders. 

“Aw, c’mon, Greg. We’re jus’ ‘avin’ a laugh,” he reassures, his Northerner accent heavy. “Tell us about ‘er, won’t you?”

Greg pauses at the assumed gender and coughs awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. These blokes are nice enough, but they aren’t the most politically correct bunch. Thankfully, their captain John notices his discomfort and comes to the rescue. “We can all gossip later, fellas. Greg has somewhere to be and so do you lot. Don’t think I haven’t seen your schedules.” Everyone groans, and Greg tosses John a grateful smile, who pats his shoulder in return.

John’s probably his closest friend in Uni, actually. Being bisexual himself, he can relate to Greg being “in the closet.” Plus, he’s funny as shit and quick with his words, even if he is a bit hopeless for Sherlock. And isn’t that just ironic? Not that Greg’s hopeless for /Mycroft/, though. Far too soon. The bloke may be gorgeous and funny and infuriating, but that’s about all he knows about him. They haven’t spoken since yesterday, Mycroft’s last sentence still ringing in his ears.

Why /did/ he park there? Was it to see Greg? Was this all some sort of elaborate prank? Oh, Christ, is /Sherlock/ in on—

“Oi, Greg. Earth to Greg. Wake the fuck up, Greg.” John waves his hand in front of Greg’s face to jerk him out of his reverie and he bats it away jokingly, letting an easy grin tug his lips.

“Piss off, Watson. Was deep-thinking. You should try it sometimes,” Greg teases with a playful shove, standing up and stretching his arms. The locker room’s empty now, save for the two of them. He really did get lost in his thoughts, didn’t he?

“Arsehole,” John laughs, shaking his head. “What about, though? Was Anderson right?” Greg hesitates for a bit too long and instantly John is grinning, blocking the exit. “Tell. Now. What’s his name?” And then, with a hint of warning, “Is it Sherlock?”

“/No,/ shit.” Greg rolls his eyes, raking his fingers through his hair. “The kid’s all yours.” 

“He’s seventeen. That’s legal.”

“Whatever.”

“….So.”

With a sigh, Greg leans back against the lockers with his arms crossed. “You ain’t letting this go, are you, mate?”

John smirks. “What, and miss out on my best friend maybe /finally/ losing his virginity? Nah. Spill.” Greg gives him the two-fingered salute, which is promptly returned as friends do, but nods his acquiesces.   
“Mycroft. But it’s /nothing/,” he adds quickly when John’s eyes grow about five times their size, grinning so wide it /has/ to hurt by now. “It’s nothing. He kept stealing my spot and I yelled at him and then we had a bit of a laugh, and he said a weird thing to me and drove off. That’s it.”

“What did he say? …Wait, sorry, did you /actually/ yell at Mycroft Holmes for taking your parking spot?” John asks incredulously.

“Yeah, and the fucker apologized for it, too.”

“Shit, you’re magic.”

“Avra Cadavra, motherfucker.” John and Greg share a laugh for a few moments before Greg remembers the first question. “And he said he /was/ parking in that spot on purpose. And like, smirked at me.” John whistles low, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“He likes you. That’s the only possible explanation. Especially if he was /smiling./”

“He was, definitely.”

“You gotta ask him out.”

Greg barks out a laugh, but John stays serious, raising an eyebrow at him. Greg blinks, mouth opening and closing a few times. “Wait, you’re /serious?/” John raises his shoulders in a “duh” sort of motion. “You’re fucking crazy. I can’t ask him out.”

“And why not? I promise you he’s a virgin, too. You guys can suck in bed together.” The double entendre hits them at the same time and they giggle like twelve year olds for a moment before sobering up. 

“Seriously, Greg. You have no classes with this guy. What do you have to lose?” Greg groans, because he doesn’t have any logical answer to that, and John grins victoriously as he walks towards the exit. “Do it, mate. I’ll see you tomorrow, and you /better/ have a date by then.” With that, he closes the door, leaving Greg alone in the locker room with his thoughts.

~

It doesn’t take long for Greg to find Mycroft’s car. 

Well, it takes him longer than if he’d just gone straight there, rather than spending about twenty minutes pacing through the locker room and cursing under his breath. But he decides John’s right, and that if nothing else Mycroft will be too creeped out to ever take his spot again, and so he goes.

Mycroft isn’t there when he arrives so Greg leans against the car, desperately hoping he doesn’t set off any of the billion alarms the thing must have, and stares up at the clouds like it can somehow tell him how to ask Mycroft Holmes on a date. God, how /is/ he going to do this? Mycroft’ll probably just laugh at him, perhaps stare down his nose at him instead. Greg groans, rubbing a hand over his face, and he’s just about to give up and walk away…

“Gregory?” Greg snaps his head up at the voice and sees Mycroft standing in front of him, an eyebrow raised and his hands clasped in front of him. Instantly, Greg clears his throat and straightens, grinning.

“Hey! Fancy meetin’ you here, eh?” He asks, waggling his eyebrows with the joke. Mycroft only stares, that look of vague concern on his face again, and Greg’s smile dies on his lips. “Ah,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck. “Listen, I know we don’t…know each other well, but…I was thinking, maybe you’d like to go to dinner or something? Or maybe not dinner. Dinner would be boring. A movie? No. Shit. Shit fuck shit. Um, we could go to the…museum…of…”

“Yes.”

Greg stops his rambling and stares at Mycroft, who now has a small smile playing on his lips, eyes sparkling. He gets lost in how expressive those eyes seem to always be for a moment before shaking his head. 

“Sorry, what?”

“Yes,” Mycroft repeats, as if he were talking to a child. “Dinner sounds lovely.” He looks like he’s just accomplished something, and his cheeks are a bit pink. Greg’s mouth forms a silent “oh” and he nods slowly, scratching the back of his neck.

“Yeah? You sure? I mean it like…a date. You. Me. Dating.”

“I have actually figured that out, yes, Gregory.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.”

Greg lets out a shaky, incredulous laugh, surprised and elated at how /easy/ that was, and he leans back against Mycroft’s car again. “Tomorrow night? Eight?”

“Why not tonight? I’m free.” There’s this /hope/ in Mycroft’s eyes, like he expects Greg to say no but doesn’t want to show it, and it makes something clench in Greg’s chest. He smiles at Mycroft and nods, cheeks aching pleasantly from it.

“Tonight. Eight. I’ll pick you up?” Greg asks. Mycroft grimaces, just a bit, and Greg knows he’s comparing their cars in his head. But dammit, Greg plans to sweep Mycroft off his feet, and if Mycroft plans on using his fancy cars and drivers and credit cards, Greg knows he has no chance of that. And that’s just what he tells him, and Mycroft’s answering blush and wide eyes as he actually /flounders/ for an answer is /so/ worth it. “And…I should probably have your number.” 

Mycroft awkwardly hands it over, mouth now shut tightly as he tries (and fails) to regain his composure in the most subtle way possible. Greg programs in his number, saving his name as “Hot Guy In Leather” before handing it back over. Mycroft scoffs slightly as he reads the name but doesn’t comment or make any move to change it (Greg is very proud of this), simply texting Greg a generic message to send his number. Greg saves it as “Hot Guy In Suit.” 

When they part, they’re both beaming, their phones burning holes in their pockets, hoping with newfound crushes that time passes faster just for them. 

~

Come eight-thirty, the two of them sit in a cheap faux-Italian restaurant with their menus next to them and their elbows on the table. When they’d first arrived, Mycroft looked scandalized at the venue, glaring at Greg like he’d just taken him to a slaughterhouse. Greg’d only shrugged and grinned, hand resting on the small of Mycroft’s back. But as the date progressed, their only decent wine ordered (Mycroft had looked a bit pale when he saw the menu) and appetizers on their way, both of them became lost in each other.

If you’d pull Greg aside right now and ask him what he and Mycroft are talking about, he wouldn’t have an answer. They aren’t discussing any big topics or making small talk. They aren’t pressing or debating or asking questions. Only…talking. About everything and anything that comes to mind. All the normal societal rules that come with the messy process of dating have been tossed out the window, and because of that Greg’s seeing the true Mycroft, under the suit and attitude, and he finds the true Mycroft is…

He struggles for the right word for him.

The true Mycroft is fallible, sometimes misunderstanding Greg’s words or fumbling over his own. The true Mycroft is quirky, blinking rapidly when unsure of something and humming during pregnant pauses. The true Mycroft is silly, in his own way, and he laughs whenever Greg’s not-posh accent makes a word sound funny, usually mocking it in his own quite-posh accent a moment later. The true Mycroft isn’t magnificent or perfect or ethereal or any of the other words he’s sure strangers have used for him, and quite suddenly the right one enters Greg’s mind.

The true Mycroft is /human/. And it’s /wonderful./

They eat quietly when their main courses arrive, the silence only broken when Mycroft scolds him for chewing with his mouth open and Greg tells him to fuck off in return. 

(“You sound like a cow chewing her cud,” Mycroft harrumphs.

“Moo,” Greg replies, making his mouth open wide for the sound. Mycroft grimaces and gags lightly, kicking Greg under the table, and then they giggle and eat on. Greg does stop smacking his lips eventually.)

Towards the end, their bellies full of wine that Mycroft reluctantly admits isn’t /that bad/ and food Mycroft insists /really is/, the mood shifts suddenly, but not unpleasantly. It starts innocently enough, Greg’s leg brushing Mycroft’s under the table and Mycroft returning the gesture with an almost shy sort of grin. Heat lances through Greg (the wine probably helps), and he smiles back and does it again. This time, though, he very deliberately trails his foot up the length of Mycroft’s calf, watching his expression carefully.

Mycroft takes a slow, deep breath and shuts his eyes briefly, cheeks visibly red even in the low lighting of the restaurant. “Gregory,” he murmurs, the low tone of his voice turned gravelly with lust. The sound alone has Greg straining in his trousers, but his foot pauses in his journey. Lust doesn’t always mean consent – it doesn’t take a genius to know that.

“Yeah?” he mumbles back, keeping his voice soft and gentle.

“I’ve never…done anything like this before,” Mycroft informs. Greg starts to pull back his foot but Mycroft reaches down and grabs his ankle, holding it in place and brushing his thumb under the bone. “I’m not saying no,” he says, and Greg is embarrassed at how much harder he’s gotten with Mycroft’s warm, firm touch paired with that fucking /sinful/ voice of his. “Just…slowly?”

“We’ve got all the time in the world, sweetheart.” The endearment comes easily to him and he doesn’t focus on it, resting his hand atop Mycroft’s free one across the table. “If it helps, I haven’t done anything like this either.” Mycroft looks shocked at that and Greg laughs, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m not exactly ‘out,’ if you know what I mean. And I haven’t really met anyone worth coming out for. Yet.” He adds the last sentence hastily when Mycroft gets a sort of wounded look on his face, but he perks up and nods his understanding.

“We shall learn together, then,” Mycroft decides, squeezing Greg’s ankle slowly. Greg eagerly agrees, and the two of them share a heated look for a moment before Mycroft calls the waitress over for the check with a slightly breathless voice. Greg is /ridiculously/ proud of this.

In the end, they barely make it through the door of Greg’s flat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commissioned work. Please message me if you'd like your own! Also, here be smut.

Greg has Mycroft’s back against the wall, one hand on his hip and the other tangled into his hair as he swallows each needy moan that escapes Mycroft’s throat, their mouths fused together. The kisses are unskilled but full of unbridled passion and lust, and their hips grind together with every wet smack that echoes throughout the room. Greg’s so turned on he can’t think straight, and judging by the way Mycroft’s fingers claw at his back, he’s not alone. Greg pulls back from his lips to trail hot, messy kisses down Mycroft’s neck, sucking at the skin under his ear and shuddering at the gasping moan he gets in return.  
Their clothing is shed without care or thought, leather and wool crumpling beneath their feet as hungry fingers stroke and grab at eager skin. At some point, they fall onto Greg’s couch, Mycroft gloriously stretched out beneath him. His skin is dotted with freckles, toned with just a hint of pudge at the stomach, neck long and regal. Greg feels like he’s been gifted with something precious and far too good for him, and he makes a vow to spend hours upon hours worshiping this man. 

Now, though, is not the time for slowness.

A mutual, silent agreement passes between them and Greg presses a soft kiss to Mycroft’s lips as he settles between his legs, their cocks pressing together. Their pre-cum intermingles and dribbles down the shafts and Greg takes them both in hand, spreading it before gripping tight. Pleasure makes his arms shake and his head duck into the crook of Mycroft’s neck as he starts to thrust his hips into the circle of his fist, their cocks rubbing together in a sensual glide. Mycroft moans and embraces Greg, pulling him close and hooking his legs over his waist so Greg feels surrounded, enveloped completely in their own intimate world. 

They both start to roll their hips, and just like that the tenderness is gone. Greg soon drops his hand to anchor himself above Mycroft, thrusting and grinding in dirty circles he didn’t know he could do, whining grunts and moans escaping him. Mycroft’s keening under him, nails digging into his back and hair and arms as he bucks his hips and arches his back with every powerful cant. The pleasure is addictive and heady, so good it’s almost painful and Greg’s not even /inside/ of him, and Christ, this isn’t going to last long.

Mycroft starts muttering, babbling, all that genius nowhere to be found as he begs for it harder and faster, little “ah’s” punctuating his pleas. His name falls broken and chanted from Mycroft’s kiss-bitten lips and Greg has to shut him up, has to before he can’t take it anymore. He seals their mouths together, licking into it, their breath hot and panting between them. Greg’s rhythm starts to break, turning frantic and uneven as that glorious heat knots his stomach. Mycroft’s feet dig into the flesh of Greg’s arse, his moans rising in pitch and urgency and now Greg /needs/ to hear him like he needs air to breathe. 

He forces his mouth away from Mycroft’s to whisper harshly into his ear, thrusting so hard the couch creaks loudly in protest. “Come for me,” he growls, and the answering gasp only fuels him. “I want to see it. I want to -- /fuck/ -- I want to make you see stars, baby.” 

It’s in that moment that Greg learns Mycroft’s both silent and /achingly/ beautiful in the throes of orgasm. 

His back arches high, stomach muscles rolling and clenching under that freckled skin, head tipped back and mouth open wide as his lips tremble and his eyes stare unseeingly at the ceiling. It hurts, how amazing he looks, and he’s so distracted by it that he doesn’t notice his own orgasm until it hits him like a freight train. Greg groans out like a wounded thing as he shakes and thrusts and spills, their come making their stomachs wet and slippery.

Their hips still as they come down, pressed together and warm with sex and contentment. Softly, silently they kiss, stroking each other’s hair and face and murmuring reassurances and sweet nothings that aren’t really nothings at all. Soon, Mycroft’s just holding Greg close, Greg’s face resting on his chest and their eyes closed. Together, they doze off, so utterly happy and at peace that they don’t give any mind to the millions of things that could go wrong.

~

As things usually go in Greg’s life, he’s the one that fucks it up. 

The next morning is just as perfect as the night before, but as soon as they part ways on campus for their classes, the reality of the situation hits. Greg has a /boyfriend./ Sure, it’s only one date, but it ended with sex and a sleepover and fuck, Mycroft’s eyes were so damn soft through it all, so that must speed things along quite a bit. /Too fast/, Greg thinks, leaning back in his desk with a pale face and shaking hands. If anyone notices, no one says anything, and that’s just as well because Greg has no idea what he’d possibly say to them. Because now, /now/….Greg has to come out. He has to tell his rugby mates and hold hands with Mycroft in public and be the gay guy, and maybe it’s just internalized homophobia but he really /doesn’t want/ to be the gay guy, no matter how much he is and how much he likes Mycroft.

Fuck. He didn’t think this through. 

Maybe…he can take it slowly. Yeah. That’ll work. He’ll just introduce the idea of his “gayness” in pieces, over the course of several days or weeks or years. Mycroft isn’t anywhere near Greg during the day anyways. It’s a foolproof plan, honestly, and Greg relaxes for the first time since he woke up. 

After class, he whistles to himself as he walks out of the class, hoping to kill some time in the library, and he walks face-first into Mycroft’s chest. “Mycroft!” He exclaims, voice rising in pitch. Mycroft raises an amused eyebrow at him, smirking.

“I’m very glad you know my name by now, Gregory,” he teases, leaning in for a kiss. Greg panics and pushes him away, looking around quickly to make sure no one saw. And then, he freezes. He looks up at Mycroft, and the smirk is gone, his eyes hurt and angry. “Ah.”

“No, shit, wait. Sweetheart, you don’t understand--,” Greg rushes to explain, but Mycroft cuts him off, hands now behind his back.

“I understand /perfectly/ well, thank you. You haven’t found someone worth coming out for,” he says, voice icy and hard. Greg grimaces at the tone and shakes his head, but he doesn’t reach out for him.

“No, no. It’s not like that. I’m just…frightened. It’s fucking scary, okay? I want to, I do, I /promise./” Greg tries to put every ounce of sincerity in his body into his words, begging with his eyes for Mycroft to believe him. 

Mycroft sighs and clenches his jaw, looking away for a moment. “I expected more from you, Gregory. Yes, coming out is ‘fucking scary,’ as you so eloquently put it, and that’s why I foolishly supposed it would be easier for the /both of us/ to do it /together./” Greg stares at him, unable to say anything else. Mycroft is right, of course he is. He’s right, and Greg is wrong, and he still can’t do it. Mycroft must read this on his face because he turns away, hands clenched into fists. “Do not contact me until you’ve matured, or until you’ve decided I mean enough to you to /try./”

Greg feels a punch of anger and irritation at the patronizing tone, always /patronizing/, and he speaks without thinking. “It was /only one fucking date!/” He snarls out, and Mycroft’s shocked, hurt look engraves itself into his mind as he storms off down the hall. 

He’s going home early today.


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commissioned work. Please message me if you'd like your own!

A week passes, and then two, and then in the middle of the third Greg can’t risk his grade anymore and he goes back to class. He hasn’t missed /all/ of them, but he’s missed most, and the ones he’s actually attended were left early and shown up to late. He’s terrified, out of his mind /petrified/ that he’ll see Mycroft and have to face what he’s done. Greg wants to go back in time and shake himself for being so damn stupid and careless, because yes, it /was/ only one date, and that date made him want a million more and now he’s ruined it. 

He makes it through the day without a hint of Mycroft and he’s a mix of relieved and depressed as he drags his feet to rugby practice. When he gets there he realizes John must know what happened, because no one mentions his absence or acts like anything’s different at all. Greg knows John’s going to trap him and talk to him, and on some level he welcomes it. On the rest of those levels, however, he wants to climb out of the window when he isn’t looking. 

The talk ends up happening much as their first, with John trapping him in the locker-room after the others had left. But now, his arms are crossed and his face is stern, and even in silence he /radiates/ “My Boyfriend Says You Broke His Brother.” They stare at each other in silence for a few tense moments before John, ever the leader, breaks it. “What the fuck?” he asks, voice hard but not unkind.

“I panicked,” Greg groans, plopping down onto the bench and holding his head in his hands. “I fucking panicked and then he was all pretentious and then I fucked shit up and I wanna puke. I don’t know what to do and it’s all my damn fault.” 

John sighs and sits next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Do you like him?”

“That’s not th—,”

“Answer the fucking question.”

“…Yes.”

“Do you want to be with him?”

“Yes.”

“Are you willing to be out with him?” Greg hesitates, and John /growls/.

“Yes! Shit, Watson, you’re not a fucking pit bull.” 

John rolls his eyes and squeezes his shoulders. “Look, I’m going to be blunt with you: Mycroft’s a wreck. No, don’t you fucking pull away. Listen. He’s a wreck. You can’t tell unless you know him, but he is, and that’s because all those questions you said yes for have been yes for him since the beginning. But it means you can fix it. If he didn’t care, I’d punch you in the face for being a dick and we could all move on with our lives, but he does, and so you can fix it.

“It won’t be easy, and you’re not always gonna feel euphoric around him, and you might even break up in a couple months, but relationships don’t /have/ to be forever. We’re young, Greg, and so many people our age miss opportunities like this because they’re afraid of their yes turning to no. So fuck that. You’re gonna be an /officer/, and you need to start acting like it. Fuck panicking, fuck what the team or your classmates or your professors think, and /get your damn boyfriend back./”

Greg stares at him in silence for a moment before grabbing John’s cheeks, pressing a big, wet kiss to his lips, and running from the locker room as John fake-retches and complains behind him. He runs until his legs ache and his chest burns, skidding to a halt in front of his car. He has ten minutes until Mycroft shows for his evening class, and he’s going to fix this in twenty. 

He’s going to be a fucking officer. Fear can go bugger itself. 

~

Fifteen minutes later, Greg leans against his moved car, staring up at the clouds. A car pulls up, and he smiles without looking, heart hammering in his chest. The car just idles there, and Greg knows he’s being figured out, and then /finally/ that smooth voice, now soft and hesitant, graces his ears.

“Excuse me, Gregory, but I do believe you’re in my spot.”


End file.
